Bring Me Sunshine

Sidey’s Weekend Theme is Sunshine.  Here in Stockport we don’t get much sunshine, being the English equivalent of Twilight‘s town of Forks, minus the pretty vampires.  So, just rain, then.

We have to make our own sunshine, so here you go – some fake sunshine, courtesy of You Tube:

Now that you are as depressed as we Stopfordians usually feel, here’s something that actually works like sunshine is supposed to:

Have a great weekend, flowers!

Big Sunflower (Photo credit: eggheadsherpa)

How to have fun in spite of rain:

 

Cold Calling An Author Can Sometimes Pay Off

I once acted out of character and it paid off.

Let me explain: I am quite shy.  No, really.

It is easy to be gregarious on (I was going to say ‘paper’ but I guess technically it’s) plastic; much harder in real life when the person you are talking to is not behind a monitor six thousand miles away going ‘Huh? Wazzsheonabout?’ but standing right in front of you, rictus grin plastered on face, thinking, ‘Huh? Wazzsheonabout?’

I’m rubbish at cold calling; at asking strangers for something.  I once had a job as a Carpet Cleaning Saleswoman (it was the early Eighties; I wasn’t a person then). I had to go door-to-door to tell people that they needed me because their carpets were dirty.  All for an alleged weekly wage of £75.

I was so bad at cold calling and made so few sales (ten-day total sales: zero), they put me on commission at the end of the first week (it was the early Eighties; I had no rights that I knew of, being eighteen and stupid).  In one month I earned a grand total of £9.

If they had only asked me to write to the customers, it might have been a different story.  As this one is turning out to be, because it’s about my writing group.  No, really.

I saw an article in our local paper about a local writer who had just published her third book –  actually, it was her second book, although she has written her third book; the reporter got it wrong – may his rugs remain forever filthy – despite the author sending him the details in cold hard ether.  Fortunately, I didn’t know that at the time, or this might have been a different story (not really, but repetition is a good comedy device and I’m feeling facetious today, even a little lightheaded, not having blogged at you for five days).

I read in the Stockport Express that author Allie Cresswell had not only published her third book [not], but she lived in Stockport and had a website.  I moseyed on over to her website by way of dinner, dessert, crisps and a bar of chocolate, and thought she looked friendly enough, so I girded up my now ample loins and popped off an email.

That’s the bit that was out of character – I cold called an author.  Yo!  I said, I belong to Stockport Writers.  We have no money; will you come and talk to us for free?

Yes, she replied; I’d love to.  I’m pretty sure my charm and erudition won her over.

Emails were exchanged; details were organised (please run the whole session, however you like, but don’t arrive before eleven because the Art Gallery won’t let us in until then because of insurance issues, I think); cake purchased in honour of our guest.  The great day arrived…

All joking aside, it was a great day.   Warm and friendly, Allie told us a bit about herself (passing off the sloppy journalist’s carelessness as just one of those things…so magnanimous*), her writing background and her career. Then she read from one of her books – we enjoyed it so much, we asked for more.  After a break for tea and cake (these loins won’t amplify themselves, you know), Allie set us a writing exercise, which had everyone interested and animated.  To keep things fresh, we do rotate the chair each month, as in, a different person chairs each month’s meeting; we don’t sit in swivel chairs and circulate stationarily (the gallery staff keep those chairs to themselves; we can’t complain because they let us use the space for free).  To have someone entirely new set the prompt made us all a little giddy, and produced some wonderful freewriting.

*If I appear to be losing it a little here, it’s because I am.  Remember my magnum opus (I Went To London To Be On Telly And Get Free Stuff)?  It might have turned out all right in the end, but that sloppy – and somewhat vindictive – journalism has made me over-sensitive.  Besides, that Stockport Express journalist didn’t publicise our guest speaker like I asked him to in my second – and last – out of character cold calling email.  May his rugs remain forever filthy.

Allie brought some of her books and I felt, having strong-armed her into coming along, that I ought to buy at least one of the novels, but I didn’t have enough money on me.   Fortunately, she sells them for Kindle, and I was able to buy two for less than the price of one hard copy.   Even more of a bargain, the Amazon account is hooked up to the Hub’s credit card and not mine so, technically, I got them for nothing.  And I had cake!  What a great day.  Our guest also got a booking, from one of our writers who attends another group, so it was a win-win situation.

Now I come to the reason why I haven’t blogged for five days: I started one of the books, Relative Strangers.  As a pretty woman might say, big mistake; huge. You should see the state of my house – I’ve done no housework because all I wanted to do was read; and the dogs aren’t talking to me.

The book explores the dynamics of family life by gathering together one extended family in a large house for one week.

At first, I was confused by the sheer number of characters but I soon worked out who was married to whom and had which children and which in-laws and which rooms and cars and grievances and grudges.  The book is packed with incident and was a really interesting and fun read, but not fun in the way – I hope – this post is fun.  It was a fascinating exploration of relationships: the characters, for the most part, were neither good nor bad, but human, with foibles and faults like we all have.

The ending surprised me.  And that’s all I’ll say, because I don’t want to give anything away.  If you like surprises, don’t read the blurb on the website because it tells you in which direction the ending heads.

There were more typos than I usually approve of but I let them pass because I enjoyed the book so much.  I only mention them because I want this to be a balanced critique.  Definitely recommended.  You can trust me; it’s not like I’m a journalist (sorry, Kateshreswdaytheexception).

You can find Allie’s website here; and her books on Amazon here; and here. They are available on Amazon.com as well as the UK site.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this post because you may not get another for at least the next five days: I have her other book to read.

 

I Was Accidentally On Telly

Why is it that the vast majority of sycamores cannot grasp even the most basic economic principles? (Photo credit: one percent for the planet)

Many years ago, that was; I’m not referring to my most recent appearance, in the audience of the first leaders’ debate during the 2010 General Election campaign: blink and you missed me.

I was reminded of my week on telly by yesterday’s prompt about a surreal experience.  It’s quite a long story so go and have your wee first.

I’m a big fan of saving the planet.  I’m in favour of breathable air, water for all and not buying a new thing until the old thing dies, is dismantled and the parts used for shelves, dusters and magazine holders.  My tea caddies are old coffee jars, so I practise what I preach.

In 2001 Stockport council sent out questionnaires asking what residents did in the way of being green.  I told them.  In detail.

Reserved: Hybrid vehicles only (Photo credit: kevin dooley)

A couple of months later they contacted me and asked if our family would be willing to take part in their upcoming Cleaner, Greener campaign.  ’Sure,’ I said.  We were interviewed and photographed for a brochure and invited to the campaign’s launch at the art gallery in January 2002.  I wore a dressy frock purchased in a charity shop for £3; the boys wore hand-me-downs and the Hub a favourite old jacket. We looked very smart when we were presented as Stockport’s Greenest Family.

I was interviewed for Radio Manchester or something like that.  I’ll be honest, I was flattered but incoherent.  When the producer asked what kind of thing I do to save the planet, I babbled on about washing on cold and folding wet washing and only ironing one side, but not necessarily in that order and interspersed with more than the necessary number of ums, ahs and ers.  I can still see her resigned smile and hear the click of the delete button as I turned away.

Material Wealth. Fear of Loss (Photo credit: HikingArtist.com)

There was a small article in the Stockport Express and that, I thought, was that.  We’d had the fun of a cultural night out at the art gallery.  So cultural, I thought the refreshments were a modern art display until the guests attacked them. We ate our fill, drank expensive swill (Cleaner, Greener but not Cheaper, Cheaper) went home and thought nothing more of it.  

Until the day the phone rang and I had a moment of entelechy.

You know what?  This is such a long story, I think I’ll leave it there for now. More tomorrow!

*

Yesterday’s word was, of course dacnomania:  an obsession with killing, often by biting.  That explains my Twilight fixation.

RIP PC Gareth Francis

Read the full story

A policeman was murdered in Stockport last night.  PC Gareth Francis was on his way home from a night out with friends when he was attacked on Castle Street, Edgeley.  He died in hospital.  Two men have been arrested.

We shop on Castle Street all the time.  It is just up the road from my church.  I have been on it at night, on an evening out with friends.

I was desperate to leave South Africa in 1996 because of the violence.  We heard many terrible stories while we lived there, and witnessed violence ourselves, upon occasion.  I always thought it could happen to one of us while we lived there.

I never expected it to happen so close to home, here in the UK.  We have a lot of petty crime but we feel safe walking the streets.

It is dreadful to think of that young man, a man who was valuable in his community, who made a difference, being killed as he walked home.

Such a tragic waste.

 

My Morning So Far

Alarm clocks, Glee, breakfast, snow, dogs

Spud had to be up at six-thirty this morning, to catch an early bus to school for a rehearsal of The Bacchae, in which he’s playing The Messenger, 1970s’ style. He’s in two plays in two months; he obviously wants to catch up on the five years he wasn’t performing.

He took my alarm clock and set his phone alarm, as he doesn’t need me to get him up on a Saturday.  Of course I woke about six and lay in bed for forty-five minutes, waiting for him to get up.  I don’t want to be a mollycoddling mummy, believing that children should take responsibility for themselves at some point, especially on Saturdays but, by 6:46 I could stand it no longer and I jumped out of bed to harry him along.  I walked in on him as he was changing.

Oops, I did it again, as Rachel sang in Episode 2, Series 4 of Glee.  I snuggled on the couch under my Vivquilt, catching up on some TV, eating cereal and sipping hot tea while Spud glowered around me.  I don’t envy him, going out in the dark and cold and snow.  There’s something to be said for letting your kids grow up – bad weather is no longer to be feared every Monday to Friday, 08:30-09:00 and 15:00-15:30 in term time.

We’ve had a fair bit of snow in Stockport but it’s not worthy of the name.  It has been constant but fine, useless for playing in.  Even the dogs showed no interest and they usually love snow.  On our walk yesterday I had to drag Molly.  It was like pulling a hairy sled.

I’ll probably leave her at home today and just walk Toby.  She is snuggled under a fleecy blanket on the couch and I don’t expect to see her until lunch time.

It has started snowing again.  I think I’ll join her.  Toby can walk himself; it’s Saturday.

 

Three Things

Tragedy by Steps at Merseyway Xmas lights last night

When I read this on Twitter today about my home town, I thought, ‘Oh no!’

They even had video:

I just read this on Facebook:

Stalking is when two people go for a long romantic walk but only one of them knows about it.

A couple of weeks ago, we received a reminder card through the post that Toby and Molly were due to have their booster jabs.  There was also an offer to download a money-off coupon.  The Hub phoned the vet, made the appointment, and off we went yesterday.

They had no record of our appointment but fitted us in anyway.  Turns out Toby didn’t have his booster last year because, at the time we took the dogs, his lesions had returned, he needed antibiotics and he couldn’t have the booster at the same time.  He was injected several times at several appointments and we had thought as we cried into our wallets that one of those was his booster jab.  

Never mind – at least we had the money off coupons to make it a little easier this time.

No, we didn’t.  The coupons weren’t valid for this particular branch.  

We came away unimpressed yesterday – not only had our beloved dog been unprotected for a year, he needed to start a whole new course of immunisations at a boosted price, they wouldn’t accept our coupons and they hadn’t even known we were going to turn up despite the Hub making the appointment a week earlier.

When we got home there was a message on the answering machine:

Hello!  This is anonymous from another vet’s.  Toby and Molly missed their appointment for their boosters today.  If you would like to make another appointment, please call back on number given.

The Hub had made the appointment and downloaded the coupons for one vet’s practice, but we had visited another.

 

I’m A Tad Grumpy

No TV cop shows were spoiled in the making of this post.

English: Stepping Hill Hospital Viewed from the railway bridge on Bramhall Moor Road. (Photo credit: Wikipedia  © Gerald England)

 

The dreaded ‘T’ word has been deployed – I think you know that means I’m seriously put out.

I sat at the computer for all of five minutes this morning.  The stupid chair and rotten cramped desk made my legs ache just by looking at them.  I decided to catch up with one of my favourite cop shows instead.  A character I like died saving a character I dislike.  Great.

By this time it was nine o’clock so the doctor’s surgery was open.  I waited all day yesterday and heard nothing.  No wonder my legs ache – they’ve been supporting an over-extended bladder for 24 hours.

I phoned.  Scary Receptionist wasn’t there but she had passed the details on to Uninterested Assistant Practice Manager, who ‘hadn’t gotten around to phoning’ me yet.  UAPM told me it was the Trust’s fault: they changed the ‘boundaries’ of who could have the flu jab so, even though the NHS literature says everyone with a neurological condition can have it, they mean everyone with a neurological condition who the local Trust says can have it.  I can try phoning again in early December to see if they’ve got any jabs left, but I’m not holding my breath (except to count to ten while I remember I’m supposed to love everyone, even those who work at my local doctor’s surgery).

My only comfort is that the Hub will get the flu which, because of his weak nervous system, will turn to pneumonia, causing him to be hospitalised, ruining our Christmas and costing the NHS a thousand times more in ICU fees than it would have if they’d given him the absolutely vital flu jab in the first place.

Strangely, the Hub doesn’t find that the least bit comforting, but what does he know?  He’s sick.  He is still not fully recovered from his bug and it’s been more than two weeks.  He is weak and has hardly been out of bed, never mind the house.  He went out on Sunday for thirty minutes and that knocked him flat. He’s thinking about trying to get up again today.

All joking aside, if that’s what a bug can do to him, imagine how the flu could affect him.  No wonder I’m grumpy.  I don’t want Christmas ruined.

After the waste of time that was my phone call to the doctor’s, I tried going back onto the computer to complain about it to you.  No internet for over an hour.

‘Tad’ doesn’t even begin to describe my mood today.  Well, it wouldn’t, would it? It’s a noun, not an adjective.

I would like to make one thing clear: I might complain and the Hub might get really sick but the NHS is still wonderful and one of the best healthcare systems in the world – and free, most of the time.  If the Hub does get pneumonia, they will care for him and it will cost us nothing.  So it won’t bite into my Christmas Present Budget.  There’s always a silver lining.

We have an excellent hospital in Stockport.  You may have heard of it, it was in the news: many patients were poisoned last year by a member of staff.

Related articles

• Stepping Hill poison probe: “I will kill again” message left on mirror in Stockport hospital (menmedia.co.uk)
• Stockport poison probe hospital Stepping Hill is given a clean bill of health (menmedia.co.uk)
• http://thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com/2012/10/30/when-is-m-e-not-a-neurological-condition/

Poeming Bliss

What a great weekend for me (though possibly not for poetry):

Friday Afternoon:

Poetry reading by Suzanne Batty, followed by a Q&A session and workshop, at Stockport Central Library.

Suzanne read some of her poems (not enough; I could have stood to hear more) and members of the audience (not me) asked intelligent questions (I rest my case).  Then she had the group analyse a couple of poems by other poets, based on National Poetry Day’s [4 October] theme, Stars.  It was like being back with the Open University.  Better than eating Maltesers.

Finally, we had to use the theme to write our own poem.  Ten people produced ten very different poems.  Mine was a complaint about the retirement of the space shuttles.  I’m not talking to NASA at the moment.

The high point of the whole afternoon was wholly unexpected.  A middle-aged man next to me had come along to the reading to experience something new.  He was taken aback to find himself part of a workshop.  He has never written anything in his life, and was embarrassed to admit he only managed three lines. Three lines that proved to be a beautiful haiku.  I was thrilled for him.

I took some pictures of Suzanne but my camera and I disagree about the use of lighting, so they didn’t turn out.  The camera always wins.  Fortunately, Suzanne had given me permission to lift her photo from her Facebook page.  She really is as nice as she looks.

Saturday Morning:

Poetry workshop at St Peter’s Church Burley Memorial Hall in Waverton, Chester.

Not as grand as it sounds – we drove past it seven times and only found it by accident: stopping to ask directions, I looked out of the window to find we had parked in front of a sign saying, St Peter’s Church Burley Memorial Hall.  A squat but pleasant building.  The vicarage was a manor house and looked bigger than the church.

We had thirty minutes to kill so we popped into the beautiful church to look around.  It is 900 years old, we were told; and we got to touch stone that still has the chisel marks from when it was quarried almost a millennium ago.  A brilliant feeling. I enjoyed it so much, I forgot to take a photograph.

The workshop was fantastic.  Offered by the Church of England and run by the rather sweet Julia McGuiness, it introduced us to ways of writing our faith, using our faith to write (not the same thing), and cinquains.

I think I’m in love.  Cinquains are such fun!  I can’t believe I’ve never written one until the four I now have in my notebook.

Monday Evening:

Write Out Loud at Stockport Art Gallery, while it’s still open.  Poems for the reading of.

Part of the Write Out Loud network, we meet on the second Monday in the month to read our poems aloud and sort world affairs.  Not every WOL group is like ours: many of them are proper open mic events.  Our group is small and everybody knows everybody else and it has simply fallen into this particular pattern.

We might not be around much longer.  Stockport Council wants to close the art gallery Monday-to-Friday, including our indoor War Memorial, and install just the permanent collection and nothing else.

I intend to write a poem in protest.

If you think stabbing a knife into the heart of the arts in Stockport is outrageous; and closing a War Memorial five days a week is a slight to those who fought and died in several war, then please sign this e-petition: 

http://www.change.org/en-GB/petitions/stop-the-closure-of-stockport-art-gallery-and-war-memorial-during-the-week

The Council’s perfidy aside, I had a lovely weekend.  

Net Result:

• 4 Days
• 3 Events
• 13 Poems (unlucky for some)
• 1 Happy Tilly
• 1 Gushing Post

Rain. So What Else Is New?

 

To say we’ve had a lot of rain this year is an understatement.  Trawling my archives, I discover that I was complaining about rain way back in August 2010, so I dug up some facts:

It is the wettest spot on Earth (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

• If you are a UK resident this is a good site for the rain forecast.  Or you could just look out your window.
• Rainfall is classified as light if not more than 0.10 inch per hour, and heavy if more than 0.30 inch per hour.
• If the earth were a body, the Amazon rainforest would be its lungs.  It’s got emphysema.  Rainforests used to cover 14% of the earth; now it’s only 6%.  Forty more years and it’s Hello Gobi.  Dull as he is, Sting is clearly on to something.
• A single pond in Brazil can sustain a greater variety of fish than is found in all of Europe’s rivers.
• Raindrops can fall at up to 22 miles per hour.  And 22 hours a day, in my experience. 
• Louisiana is the wettest state in the US: 56 inches a year.
• One single tree in Peru was found to have forty-three different species of ants.  Okay, they can chop that one down as far as I’m concerned.
• There is a famous actor called Rain.  Ever heard of him?  Me neither.
  

  The Rain People (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

• Acid Rain is a real phenomenon; natural precipitation reacts chemically with air pollutants and becomes acidic.  Ouch.  We’re poisoning the ecosystem.  Where’s Sting when you need him?
• Made out of copper, the Statue of Liberty is corroding because of acid rain; the acid discolours and dissolves the copper.  If it carries on, she’ll be Is That You, Liberty?
• Mt. Waialeale in Kauai, Hawaii, has up to 350 rainy days every year.  If you think that’s a lot, try living in Stockport.
• Raindrops change shape as they fall.
• The world’s heaviest average rain fall (about 430 inches) occurs in Cherrapunji, India, where as much as 87 feet of rain has fallen in one year.  Is that anywhere near Stockport?
• Rain that freezes before it hits the ground is known as frozen rain.  I got that from a site called ‘Interesting facts about rain.’  I should sue them for false advertising.
• All the water in the world is all the water we will ever have. The rain and floods we are experiencing are like sloshing drinks from one glass to another.  Finally, a good idea.
• The umbrella started life as a parasol.  Talk about aspirational.
• You can make your own rain.  Like we haven’t had enough.  Check out: http://www.essortment.com/all/kidsweatherrai_rsdj.htm.  I’m not posting details here because I don’t want to encourage you.

 

These Feet Were Made For Rubbing

I haven’t yet told you about my foot rub.

During my week off I had a morning at Stockport Town Hall, at a free event.  I was offered advice, pens and tote bags.  Also, key rings, energy saver plugs, and cupcakes.  There was more, but I’m not greedy.

I met the Mayor; which is to say, I asked her if I could take her photograph and she shoved aside the minder trying to shove me aside, and posed.  The minder minds the Mayoral Chain, not the Mayor: a mayor can be (and is) replaced (each year); the chain is valuable enough to require a permanent minder.  I got my photo so I didn’t mind.

I discovered a room full of massage tables and pretty smells.  I have previously experienced a head massage, full body massage and a facial, so I opted for a foot rub.

‘Rub’ is too weak a word to describe thirty minutes of bliss: if honey is the nectar of the gods, foot rubs are the bees knees.  Feet are the true windows to the soul. 

An Angel With Dirty Feet

 The rubmeister was Wendy, who has a permanent stall at Stockport’s indoor market; she does other things to your body besides make your feet smile.  If you are ever in the area, tell her The Relaxed Housewife sent you.  She doesn’t use the internet or read this blog so she’ll think you’re nuts, but once she’s finished with your feet, you won’t care.

The Olympic Torch Relay: Day 37 – Stockport

That’s today; and we were there!  Big crowd; lots of happy faces; hand slapping policemen; no trouble.

Spud was at his prom last night; the Hub was kept awake by leg problems; I had the worst night’s sleep I have ever known; but we all dragged ourselves out of bed at seven this morning and made our way into Stockport to watch the Olympic Torch pass through our town.  It’s unlikely to happen again in our lifetime, so how could we not?

We parked near Stockport College (hooray for the Hub’s disabled badge!) and it was a short walk down Greek Street to join the crowd lining the A6 (Wellington Road). 

Spud and I found a gap at the crossing and wedged ourselves in; the Hub chatted with some police officers then disappeared with his camera.  That’s normal.

Lots of people had flags but we didn’t.  I had £1.56 in my pocket so I sent Spud to a man selling Union Flags, but they cost £2.  The seller, having true Brit spirit i.e. the soul of a banker, refused to give Spud a discount, so we were flagless.  Ah well; that’s why God gave us hands.

The atmosphere was happy and chatty.  Strangers talked to each other without embarrassment.  I had to check the flags to make sure I was in Britain.  The crowd around us designated Spud as chief looker outer, pushing him into the busiest road in Stockport every couple of minutes to see if anything was coming. 

The crowd was well-behaved – we are British, after all; standing in polite lines is what we do best.

Once the Coca Cola bus passed us, there were a few mistaken cheers for ordinary traffic, but then the parade was upon us.   Policemen on huge motorbikes slapped the hands of people en route; one even stopped for a minute to high-five a bunch of children.

Everybody in every vehicle waved to everyone in the crowd; apart from the passengers of a 192 bus, which had been accidentally caught up in the parade.  They got the biggest cheer of the day, because the British love a cock-up.  Apart from this Brit, who gave the Hub a good telling-off for not taking a picture of it.

I glanced up at the Town Hall clock as the torch approached, and it passed us at 8:30 a.m.  I think the bearer was Chris Collins, 21.

We left the house at eight and we were home by 8:55, eating a Christmas breakfast (toast on a shared plate) and drying off the effects of a British summer. 

 

Related articles

• Olympic Torch Relay (wordingmythoughts.wordpress.com)
• http://memineandotherbits.wordpress.com/2012/06/06/our-man-with-the-torch/
• Olympic torch route, day 37: the Games will leave no legacy in Moss Side (oddonion.com)

We Did It At The Library

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

It went well yesterday.  Four Stockport Writers sat and wrote in the middle of the library, and as many as two people approached us, looking for more information.  Result! 

We will have a presence in the library next week (when we are running a free workshop) and the week after.

The real result, for me, was that I wrote four poems.  I don’t think I wrote four poems in the whole of January.  Dedicated writing time (unblogrelated) is such a luxury.

National Library Day

WRITE

WRITE

WRITE

WRITE

WRITE

WRITE

Today is National Library Day in Britain, so I’m going to spend it writing. 

My writing group is to run a free workshop next week at Stockport Central Library and we want to drum up customers.  Members of the group are going to sit in the library today and write, surrounded by notices begging people to come and talk to us.  I have a t-shirt on which I intend to write, Stockport Writers Do It In The Library.  That should tempt the brave and the perverse, at least. 

Image via Wikipedia

For more Six Word Saturdays, go here.

When Did Stockport Go Tropical?

First it was the loose cobra, then the kidnapped alligator and anaconda…now, Stockport has a wild cat on the roam.  Not a missing tabby or a feral kitten – ‘a large ‘mountain lion’ type animal’, seen in a local resident’s garden.  Read it here.

Experts dismiss it as a ‘melanistic savannah’.  No, I don’t know what that is, either, so I looked it up (hooray for free speech on the internet!).  Wikipedia tells me it:

 is a medium-sized African wild cat. DNA studies have shown that the serval is closely related to the African golden cat and the caracal.

I’m no wiser.  I guess free speech is overrated.

Here’s a picture of a serval from junglecats.com (quoting the source – better practice than just linking the picture to the original website: dull reading, but I hope it will keep me out of a yankee jail):

Doesn’t look meaner than any other cat, does it? 

I am reminded of my favourite cat quote.  I’ve shared it before, but cats have nine lives, and so do their quotes:

Cats were once worshipped as gods.  Cats have never forgotten this.

Wild cats on the loose in Stockport…I guess I should have stayed in South Africa; it’s probably safer there.  We emigrated from England to South Africa in 1982: first my Dad and younger brother; Mum and I followed six months later.  Mum was on the phone to Younger Brother just after he arrived:

Mum: So what’s it like?

YB: [Joking] Great!  I’m just watching the lions stroll down the street.

Mum: [Screams] [Incoherent babble about getting out of there now!] [Faints]

I could have that conversation with her today, from Widnes to Stockport, and it would be the same in its essentials.

Or maybe it would be me with the [Screams] [Incoherent babble] [Faints]: Mum’s been dead four years.

Related articles

• A snappy return: Crocodile stolen from Stockport pet store is returned to owners (menmedia.co.uk)

Dangerous Thief On The Loose In Stockport

A danger to himself, that is: some idiot thought it would be a good idea to steal an alligator from a pet shop.  The insane burglar also took snakes and lizards, including pythons and a seven-foot yellow anaconda.   

Image via Wikipedia

 The shop owner, Paul Williamson, advised that the alligator was not

the biggest animal in the world, but they can do a lot of damage.  They’re very powerful, very strong and they’ve obviously got huge teeth, so if they bite, the next place for you go to is hospital.        Read it here.

Thanks for the warning: if a stray alligator crunched through me on the way to the post office I might not have had the sense to call an ambulance; you know how distracted I get.

Mr Williamson said that two tortoises were also stolen, but they ‘were relatively harmless.’

You couldn’t make it up.

Related articles

• Crocodile among 100 exotic animals stolen from Stockport pet store (menmedia.co.uk)
• Of This, That ‘n’ T’other (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)